


Bracelets & Beads

by KateMonster



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Polyamory, Sibling Incest, Siblings, WIP Amnesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 03:31:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7668457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateMonster/pseuds/KateMonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Personal Bandom WIP Amnesty 2016:</p>
<p>Summer of Like Pete/Gerard/Mikey relationship. Gerard sometimes feels like Pete fills spaces that are already occupied. Maybe he doesn't mind very much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bracelets & Beads

**Author's Note:**

> Actually, I'm not sure this isn't finished. It could be finished. If you wanted. I think originally there was going to be more explicit porn in this and that's kind of all that's left. But I like it the way it is. But boy oh boy I do NOT remember why I titled it "Bracelets and Beads". There must've been a thing there, but hell if I know what it was.

**Gerard**

Pete Wentz is fucking loud. All the time. 

They’re barely past the first buzz of a new tour, getting into the groove of something so fucking huge. Frank still wakes up giggling every morning and goes “Fucking Warped!” every five minutes, and they’ve already picked up a limpet in the form of Pete Wentz. He’s suddenly around all the goddamned time. It’s not like Gerard doesn’t like the FOB guys. Patrick’s a joy and a delight, if kind of quiet, but being best friends with Pete Wentz for most of your formative years would probably do that to a guy, because he is, as previously mentioned _goddamned loud._

“How irresponsible would it be to make a pot of coffee at nine pm?” Gerard asks the bus at large, and gets mostly sighs and grunts in answer, because every single one of them knows he’s going to make the pot anyway. He’s two hours off their fucking amazing set, comfortably barefoot and wearing the same pair of pajama pants he’s been wearing all week. They’re bright pink and they have little smiling sushi characters on them. He’s not switching until he finds a pair more awesome or they rot off of his body. His hair’s just hit that stage of dirty where it manages to look awesome, even after he shoves his hands through it eight billion times a day, and he’s got his band, his brother and coffee. Normally, he’d be the happiest motherfucker in a tristate area.

“Coffee would be excellent,” Pete’s voice is louder than other people’s voices, Gerard thinks. It’s not that he doesn’t like Pete. Pete’s fine. Loud, yeah, and maybe a little more fucked up than most guys, but glass houses, right? But Gerard just feels squashed while he’s around. Like Pete fills spaces that are already occupied.

“Red Bull,” Mikey says, nudging Pete’s knee with his own and making that slightly-upturned-lips Mikeysmile that really, really, that’s Gerard’s favorite face out of all of Mikey’s faces.

“Red Bull,” Pete gasps dramatically, because he is just fucking louder than anybody else, ever. “Is there any Red Bull, Gerard? Can I have some?”

Despite himself, Gerard brings a can of Red Bull over to the couch with two mugs of coffee, one with everything, one with just a little cream. He hands over the can, along with Mikey’s coffee, and then Mikey gives _him_ that happy little face and tucks one knee under Gerard’s as he settles himself in. And at the same time, Pete Wentz beams full-force at him, open and happy like Gerard just brought him a puppy with Willy Wonka’s Golden Ticket tied around it’s neck, not just a lukewarm can of a shitty energy drink. It’s a little like being hit in the face with a baseball bat. 

Gerard smiles back.

~

“Gee,” Mikey whispers later that night, his breath warm against Gerard’s cheek and the bunk curtain closed behind his bare back.

“Mmm,” Gerard replies as he shoves a hand into Mikey’s product-sticky hair and curls into him. It isn’t much of a reply, but Gerard’s distracted by the skin just behind his brother’s ear, which is beautiful. 

“Gee,” Mikey says, more urgently and Gerard backs off a little, rests his forehead against Mikey’s temple and sighs. “He’s good people. Pete, I mean.”

“I know,” Gerard says, “Anybody who likes Burton that much has to be.” He smiles when Mikey turns his head and catches Gerard’s lower lip between his teeth. “Love you,” he mumbles against his brother’s lips.

“Duh,” Mikey says as his fingers slip under the elastic of Gerard’s --totally awesome-- pajama pants and close around his hip. “Me too,” he sighs and slots their hips together, sending little jolts of pleasure up Gerard’s spine. It makes his hands shake and clutch at Mikey’s shoulder, his hair. “Me too, Gee.”

~

There’s a laundromat not far from their crazy-ass bus city in the next town. Frank makes Gerard go.

“You jizz on it, you wash it,” he says, pitching the pink pants directly into Gerard’s face and laughing. “Them’s the rules, bro.” Those _are_ the rules, because nobody likes stepping in another dude’s come, and he loves his band, because he can grumble “Mikey jizzed on them too,” and just get an eyeroll in reply.

But Mikey’s not around, and for once, neither is Pete Wentz, and Gerard has his suspicions about that. But he schleps his shit down to the coin laundry with Bob, who refuses to carry anything other than his little one-load bag because apparently it isn’t his fault Gerard has two garbage bags worth of shit to wash.

Well, of course it isn’t. It’s Mikey’s fault. Or Frank’s for making him do it.

Anyway, it’s not a good morning. Gerard sets himself up on a bench between a rumbling dryer and the quarter’s-worth-of-shitty-detergent machine with a sketchbook and his iPod and curls up to watch Bob’s socks go around.

“Bryar!” Pete really is louder than everyone else, but when Gerard peers around the corner, he’s standing in the open doorway of the laundromat, backlit by the sun, smiling wide and holding a cup. “Have you seen Gerard?”

“He’s hiding behind the soap dispenser.”

“Traitor!” Gerard says, but he pokes his head out and smiles a little, just to get Bob to smile back.

“Hey, hi,” Pete says, and he sits sideways on the bench, on knee tucked up under himself, and the other sneaker tapping the floor. “Mikey and I brought you this, and Frank said you were here, so, here.” Gerard reaches out to take the cup, but Pete makes an abortive attempt to pull it back. He looks down at it and frowns. “It’s probably all melty. You weren’t on the bus.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Gerard says fervently. “Gimme.” It is kind of melted, but Pete’s watching him a little hungrily as he takes a sip, so Gerard gives him a thumbs-up and Pete smiles again. Which is nice. “Frank’s making me do laundry, Bob wouldn’t help carry my shit, I haven’t seen Ray or Mikey all morning. You brought me a smoothie. Today, Pete Wentz, you win.” It’s strawberry-mango, even.

Apparently, Pete Wentz is the loudest motherfucker to ever bring Gerard a smoothie, have Opinions About Thundercats, and rest both of his hands heavily on Gerard’s knees as he leans in to emphasize his point about Michelle Pfeiffer. Julie Newmar is clearly the best Catwoman, but other than his completely fucked-up Batman villain preferences, Gerard thinks, Pete’s also kind of okay. He laughs longer than is maybe socially acceptable, there’s something brittle in the corners of his smile, and his sense of personal space collapses completely halfway through a conversation about glam rock and hair metal. When Pete braces both hands just below Gerard’s collarbones and says he will always have a soft spot for Bret Michaels, Gerard just laughs, loudly, and swings his legs around to bracket Pete’s hips.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, still smiling and wraps his fingers carefully around Pete’s wrists, turns his hands and presses their palms together.

“You like it,” Pete says confidently.

~  
 **Mikey**

“You devious fucker.”

Mikey looks up, still bent at the waist, digging through his bag to find his Batman trade, and stares Frank down.

“I see what you did there,” Frank says, sprawled all over the couch and grinning, wide and dirty.  
“They’d like each other, Frank,” Mikey says evenly. 

“Yeah,” Frank cackles. “Yeah, they would.” 

“Shut up,” he says, going back to his mission and coming up empty. “Do you have my first volume of Batman & Robin?”

“Yes. But also, you might think you’re all smooth and suave and shit, Mikeyway, but I see right fuckin’ through you.” When Mikey looks up again, Frank’s miming a blowjob, completely over-the-top and ridiculous, his tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek and _everything_ , and for that, and for stealing his comics, Mikey has to slap him upside the head. “Ow, goddammit, motherfucker!”

“Brotherfucker.” Mikey says and Frank collapses into that special “oh god, seriously, what the fuck is my life” laughter that he can’t even help. “They really will like each other,” he says as he sits, kicking mercilessly at Frank’s legs to get some room on the couch. 

“Yeah,” Frank says, stupid perfect eyebrows quirked up. 

“They have a lot in common,” Mikey says.

“Yeah,” Frank sighs. 

~

Mikey finds his brother at the med tent later, knocks his forehead against Gee’s shoulder, just a little check-in, a _hey, hi, I’m here_. 

“Hey, Mikes,” Gerard says, smiling and wrapping one hand around Mikey’s side. “No one’s head should ever bleed like that, it was terrifying.” He jerks his chin at Frank, who’s being prodded by the world’s most tatted-up nurse outside of a Blink album cover.

“Probably his own fault,” Mikey chuckles, waves and Frank beams back before jerking away from the antiseptic with a loud “ow, mother _fucker_.” The nurse smacks him a good one on the shoulder and Gee laughs as one of their pockets buzzes. Their hips are pressed together, so it’s sort of hard to tell, but it’s probably Mikey’s alarm. It’s almost four.

“Pete’s on,” he says. “Five minutes.” Gee nods and waves at Frank as he gathers up the billion piles of crap he somehow manages to cart everywhere. 

“We’re gonna go catch Fall Out Boy, Frankie,” he says and thankfully doesn’t look back, because Frank’s doing his Jenna Jameson impression again. Mikey just flips the bird calmly and steers his brother toward the right stage.

 

~

The bunks are really too small for three people. Really, really. But when he went looking, Mikey found his brother squashed into Pete’s bunk with him and a sketchbook. Gerard’s nose was all crinkled up and Pete was laughing, and Mikey crawled in without hesitation, resulting in one instance of near ball-crushing and a knee that got bashed up pretty good.

“I keep having to come find you,” Mikey says into Gee’s hair and he smiles, lips pressed to his brother’s temple. “You’re not always on the bus these days.”

He’s between them, his head pillowed in the crook of his brother’s neck and Pete’s hand wrapped up in his. Pete’s smiling, softly, like he’s forgotten he’s doing it.

“You’re right, Mikes,” Gerard whispers. “Pete’s good people.” He reaches out, fits his hand against Pete’s side. Mikey watches Gerard’s thumb rub circles over Pete’s stomach. Pete leans into it, grinning and chanting “group hug, group hug, Ways, come on!” He clambers over Mikey’s knees and wraps an arm around each of them, knocking his head against the top of the bunk and wincing through his laughter.

Gerard leans his head against Mikey’s, which puts his nose behind Pete’s ear and sighs. Pete laughs even louder, says it tickles and Mikey can’t breathe.

~  
 **Pete**

There are seven paragraphs with varying degrees of coherency in the text box when Pete hits “post”. A hand grabs onto his headphones and pulls, and he jumps, smacking the back of his head against the bunk wall.

“Bullets, Pete?” Patrick asks, listening, his arms folded along the edge of Pete’s bunk and a smirk hiding behind his glasses. “Just make him a mix CD.”

“What?” Pete blinks. “What are you--”

“I’ll pass him a note in study hall if you want,” Patrick is still smiling, wide and easy, like it’s a joke. It’s not a joke and it is, funny in a gallows humor kind of way. A boy, his brother and their puppy, what the fuck.

“Which one?” Pete mutters and turns on his side, facing Patrick, because he can never turn his back on ‘Trick, but eyes closed and face contorted into something he’s not sure of.

“Pete,” Patrick’s voice goes soft and quiet. “You don’t know? Which one, I mean. I was thinking of Mikey, but, really, you don’t know?”

“No,” Pete says to the flashes, the bursts of firework color that come when he presses his hands hard to his eyelids. “I don’t know, Trick. They’re so...”

“So them?” Patrick asks, and yeah, Jesus, this is why he loves Patrick. Mikey might have Gerard, but... 

“Yeah,” Pete says, letting his eyes flutter open and catch on Patrick’s, soft and understanding. “They are. I can’t even think of them separately anymore. They’re...”

“Ways,” Patrick says quietly, and then he smiles. “Ways and means, Pete Wentz. Where there’s a will--”

“You’re so fucking weird,” Pete says, but he laughs. “Alliteration and puns, fuck.”

“I could ask Ray if Gerard’s said anything about you,” Patrick says, making it light and easy, smirking again and shoving one hand into Pete’s hair.

“Fuck off,” Pete growls, but he ruins it by cracking up, right in the middle, just like always.


End file.
